


we could be so close, like brothers

by nspx



Series: bound by the things we choose 'verse [2]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Original Trilogy, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Angst, Happy Ending, No Sex, No Slash, Other, Pain, Self-Doubt, lots of, obi wan u poor soul bless your heart, qui gon is somewhat Not As Involved as i wanted him to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-24
Updated: 2015-04-24
Packaged: 2018-03-25 14:07:08
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3813373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nspx/pseuds/nspx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which: Obi-Wan thinks, questions, blames himself; Qui-Gon offers moral support; the memory of who Anakin once was tortures Obi-Wan, and most importantly; in which they meet again, two halves of one whole, in the Netherworlds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	we could be so close, like brothers

**Author's Note:**

  * For [philthestone](https://archiveofourown.org/users/philthestone/gifts).



> Alright, so this is the second installment in the bound by the things we choose ‘verse. The first one was blood that binds us, Leia centric, and this one’s Obi-Wan centric. philthestone I was going though your blog and loved (loved) trash Grandpa forceghost!Anakin and I was like, I need to write about people forgiving this giant trashlord. Therefore I wrote 7k of a bunch of things, but loved Obi-Wan’s part the most and turned it into a Thing and then it took life of its own.  
> This one's for you.

When he sits in his hut on Tatooine, he thinks.

He thinks long and hard about the nine-year-old boy he met so many years ago, skin brown from the sun and irritated by rough sand, his presence in the Force burning bright and powerful through the fog of the dark; he thinks long and hard about the boy with eyes that had seen all the horrors in the galaxy yet still lit up like a supernova when he laughed, thinks long and hard about a boy with the entire goddamn weight of the Prophecy on his shoulder. 

He thinks long and hard about a boy he had failed.

Anakin was a good boy – he oftentimes didn’t give him enough credit. How could he, with how irrationally upset he was about Qui-Gon’s passing? If he had known back then, truly believed in the Jedi teachings –  _there is no death,_ they said.  _There is only the Force._  If he had believed this, things would’ve been different.

Anakin, despite being mischievous and talkative and brash, despite making Obi-Wan worry so much he pulled at the roots of his hair late at night and rubbed his tired eyes  _Force almighty you’re going to be the death of me_ , despite being reckless and loud and everything a Jedi shouldn’t be – Anakin was the only think keeping him upright.

(“Master?” Anakin asks carefully, still tip-toeing around him; they’ve not grown used to each other yet. They’ve only been together for two weeks.

“Yes, Padawan?” Obi-Wan responds patiently, giving him an encouraging smile; it’s a nice morning, he thinks. The sun is out, the birds are singing – what could be wrong?

Anakin looks at the floor, fidgets in his place. “I… messed up,” he confesses in a small voice.

 _Ah_.

“What did you do?” Obi-Wan inquires and Anakin gulps.

“I, um… I know I wasn’t supposed to,” he says quickly. “But I just wanted to see if the controls responded differently than the ones in Watto’s workshop and I’d never seen a speeder like that and–“

“Anakin.”

He looks at Obi-Wan with wide, ashamed eyes. “I…broke the speeder, I think.”

He winces harshly, as if awaiting a blow.

A piece of Obi-Wan’s heart chips away in that very moment, but he knows it isn’t supposed to.  

He sighs, shakes his head, motions for him to come. “Come on, then. Let’s go look at the mess.”

Anakin stands there, bewildered, processes what just happened; he snaps out of it and runs behind him to catch up and for the briefest moment Obi-Wan wonders whether he should address the issue of the past – it’s obviously bothering the boy.

But it’s not the Jedi way. The sooner he lets go, the sooner he buries what had been, the better.)

If only things were different; they’d still be brothers. The Emperor would be dead and little Luke would have a proper family, mother and father and sister, and he’d be living somewhere lovely, far away from the Outer Rim.

If only he hadn’t failed him.

The suns rise day in and out on Tatooine, always the same; the days seem slower here, although Obi-Wan knows better.

He doesn’t go out much, not at all if not necessary. His home is placed just so he can see Owen’s house, just so he can keep an eye on Luke from a safe distance. It’s better if the boy doesn’t know, not yet.

Some days are hard. He watches moisture gather in the vaporators and thinks about a gangly teenager with a harmless crush on a well-spoken senator and wonders where it all went wrong.

(When he first arrives on Tatooine, he cries until his throat is raw. His tunic is ripped and scorched and still smells of Mustafar.

Anakin hates him and Obi-Wan cannot blame him for it.

He curls into himself, weeps until he falls asleep. When he wakes, it’s late at night – the desert winds sing their lonely serenade, sweep across the broad expanse of dry land and clear the sky. He looks out of his window, sees a million burning stars – they used to call for him, once upon a time. It seems like they’re mocking him now; there is no battle left to fight, no one to run to. Palpatine has won, the galaxy is his. Those stars, with their blinding brilliance, they mean nothing now.

Anakin used to love stars. He told him once, hushed whisper, shaking fingers – “When I was little, my Mom used to point to the sky and say stars were the souls of our deceased loved ones. She said they would always look out for us, no matter what. It was something her people used to say. They moved around a lot, you know,” he puts the mug to his lips, both hands holding it steady. “They were all slaves. They said there was always one star that was special, though. And it was there no matter where you went and it was always there just for you.”

“How would you know which star was yours?” Obi-Wan indulges, rubs Anakin’s back with a calloused hand.

His eyes bug. “How would you know? You just – would, I guess.”

Obi-Wan looks out of the window, then, and all stars seem the same.

Anakin is  _dead_. No silly old-wives tale will bring him back.

He doesn’t move out of that spot for days.)

“Padawan,” Qui-Gon says sternly, his stance –hands on his hips, shoulders turned inwards– perfectly mirroring Anakin, “You must let go.”

“I know, Master.”

His voice is hoarse, rough – he hasn’t spoken to anyone in weeks.

It’s easier said than done. He loved Anakin in the only way he knew how and that love ran deeper than he cared to admit. The longer he is here, the more flaws he sees in everything he fought to protect.

Had the Jedi been right when they forbade attachment? Was it right to take children away from their families at such a young age? And when Anakin came to them, was it smart to train him like any other Jedi? Or at all? Was Mace right?

(“They don’t want me here,” Anakin murmurs and Obi-Wan thinks he’s too young to sound this cynical. Obi-Wan thinks he’s too young to be this perceptive. “Don’t say that,” he coaxes softly. Anakin’s eyes harden.

“Where will I go if they don’t pick me, huh?” he asks fiercely. “What happens then, Master?”

Obi-Wan does not know. “Calm your anger. Anger leads to the dark side.”

“I’m not, I’m not  _angry_ ,” Anakin denies, mellowing. “I’m just… I’m,” he swallows, “Worried.”

“Worried?”

Obi-Wan pretends he is not uncomfortable discussing feelings for Anakin’s sake.

He gives a jerky nod. “They took me from my mom and now they’re talking about selling me to someone else. I’m just looking out for myself.”

“A- _Anakin_ ,” Obi-Wan is flustered, slightly outraged. “That’s not what it is at all. You’re not a slave anymore – Qui-Gon freed you. Jedi aren’t  _slave drivers_.”

“But I have to call you Master,” his face crunches up in confusion. “And I have to do what you tell me to do and I have to listen to you. I stay where you told me to. You dressed me and cut my hair and you’re telling me all these things about how to act and think and –”

“That doesn’t make you a  _slave_ , Anakin,” Obi-Wan sighs, exasperated, “The Jedi protect people. We brought you here because you have a gift and now we’re considering teaching you how to use it. It happens with everyone,” –a feeble lie meaning to protect leaves his tongue, one Anakin doesn’t believe – “But don’t say things like that about the Jedi, you hear me? Think about Master Qui-Gon. Would he be happy with you?”

Anakin seems to shrink into himself –he says Yes Master with the kind of practiced ease that makes Obi-Wan think it was the first thing he ever said.)

(“The course of life, that is,” Master Yoda muses in his meditation chamber. “Faced with many obstacles, he will be; overcome them on his own, he must. Forgetting his past necessary is.”

“He must release his anger into the Force,” Obi-Wan cites. “That is the Jedi way.”

Yoda nods, hums in agreement; “Right you are, Padawan. Glad you came for my advice, I am.”

“Of course, Master,” Obi-Wan bows his head respectfully, stands up to leave. “I value your insight very much.”

“Escort Master Jinn to Naboo, you will,” Yoda tells him. Stray rays of sunlight peek through the binds, hit the back of his head; they cast his grey hair into a halo.

“But, Master, what of the boy?”

 _He has nowhere to go_ , he wants to say.  _We_ aren’t  _slave drivers_.  _We can’t just abandon him._

Yoda cracks one eye open, darker than the rest of him – “Uncertain, we are. Worry yourself not, Padawan. Now go.”)

 _Dead_. Ten thousand Jedi Knights dead or being hunted – at what cost?

The Republic is what he was brought up to believe was worth fighting for. The Republic was corrupt and the entire war was orchestrated and everything he believed in was a lie. Fighting for the Jedi and protecting the Republic was in his bloodstream, an integral part of him as much as any organ and yet those two very things turned out to be the very poison in his life.

He has nothing, nobody, except the Force.

(“I think I’ve been using it ever since I can remember,” Anakin says to him with a laugh, blocking Obi-Wan’s attack perfectly. “It’s the only reason I’m alive.”

“Of course,” Obi-Wan agrees, striking again, not commenting on the last part. “All Jedi use the Force long before they know of its existence.”

They circle each other, lightsabers drawn. Anakin’s halfway to becoming a fine swordsman – he is only seventeen and can more or less hold his own. He is still too unfocused, perhaps, but they’ll work on it.

Together. As a team.

Obi-Wan makes Anakin lose his balance.

“E chu ta!” Anakin curses and Obi-Wan laughs, then clears his throat abruptly.

“Mind your language.”

“I’ve heard you say worse, Master.”

“That is a downright lie, focus on your – hey!”

“Which one of us needs to focus now?” Anakin smirks, holding Obi-Wan’s lightsaber high in the air. “Let’s see if you can reach that!”

Obi-Wan smacks his hand against his forehead, considers banging his head into a wall. 

He has to give it to Anakin, though; if nothing else, he distracted him enough to make him forget to use the Force.)

“I’m glad you’re here, Master,” he admits quietly and Qui-Gon gives him that half-smile he missed so much in times of need.

“Of course, Padawan,” Qui-Gon assures and places a hand on his shoulder, warm and flesh-like.

“You can do that?” he gasps, feeling every bit the Padawan Qui-Gon calls him. “You can touch things?”

Qui-Gon smiles; he teaches him things he never dared dream of – he teaches him the ins and outs of the Force as he knows it, tells him about life after death like the Jedi prophets spoke about.

(The first time Qui-Gon appears to him, he is all open-mouthed awe and shaky confessions.)

He thinks, if only they’d told Anakin about this power, the power to return to the living after you died.  _If only._

But Padme hadn’t been Sensitive; and Anakin had been greedy. Even if he did know, Obi-Wan tells himself, it wouldn’t have been enough. If they did tell him, grant him that Mastership they denied him, it wouldn’t have been enough.

Thinking like this – _there was no good in him, Padme was wrong, the dark side twisted him completely, he wasn’t even a person anymore, let alone the same one_ – makes it easier.

(Sometimes Obi-Wan still searches for him through the Force and sometimes he senses him, somewhere far away, alive and kicking– he shuts his mind off, shuts the blinds on his windows, shuts the doors of his hut.

It can’t be more than the heat driving him into insanity.)

It’s Empire day by the standard calendar and the entire galaxy is celebrating heartily – on Tatooine it’s just another day. The Empire, much like the Republic had been, doesn’t matter here. 

Sometimes Obi-Wan wonders: was Anakin right? Was he right to betray everything they stood for? Was it even betrayal, with Palpatine at the heart of both the Empire and the old Republic? Were the Jedi truly evil, like he said they were? Did he have a point?

Would’ve it been better, smarter,  _easier_  to join Anakin in his quest for power, fight by his side, remain brothers?

Of course not.

But Obi-Wan is so tired.

The night seems darker in the desert – maybe it’s his own darkness clouding his senses.

“You must remain unyielding,” Qui-Gon lectures, tries to keep the edge out of his voice. “The fate of the galaxy rests on your shoulders.”

“No less,” Obi-Wan drawls sarcastically, slams the lid down on his caf machine.

Qui-Gon gives him a pointed look.

“Today is hard,” Obi-Wan looks down, feels embarrassment burn on his cheeks. “I’m sorry, Master.”

Qui-Gon presses his lips into a thin line. “I know.”

(“The Republic never reached the Outer Rim,” Anakin says and there is some bitter resentment in his voice Obi-Wan chooses to ignore. “They never cared about us.”

“You speak as though you are still one of them,” Obi-Wan comments lightly and pours him a cup of tea.

His fifteen year old companion flinches and before he can hide his thoughts, Obi-Wan catches him think:  _Once a slave, always a slave_.

He halts for a moment, then clears his throat and says: “Would you… like a biscuit?”

Surprisingly, and much to his relief, Anakin laughs.)

He talks to Bail Organa, leader of the Rebellion – the risk of getting caught is high, because Bail is still an important senator, so their meetings are few. Who knows, if the Empire is spying on him.

With how infrequently they see each other, how much they’ve both aged is painfully obvious.

The clock is ticking.

Bail’s hair is grey and the corners of his eyes crinkled, lines set deep into his skin – Obi-Wan can’t even imagine what he himself must look like. He hasn’t looked in the mirror in a while.

It doesn’t feel like only ten years passed. It feels like a lifetime.

(Every night, he has the same dream. Him and Anakin are bantering, as per, and Anakin is laughing, head thrown back, one flesh hand on his stomach. Obi-Wan joins in as the situation at hand seems hilarious, but when he wakes he never knows what they were laughing about.

It’s all fine and dandy; they’re best friends, brothers. They’re the unbreakable team, two halves of one warrior; he dreams of their glory days as heroes, dreams of missions successful and raised glasses and proud secretive smiles shared across a room.

Then Anakin’s face contorts into one of spite; his eyes flash golden yellow; his mechanical hand clenches; shadowy hands pull at his torso, pull at his arms, pull at his legs.

He doesn’t resist.

Obi-Wan can’t reach him even though he’s screaming and kicking, struggling against invisible binds – he knows these shadows. He’s noticed them before, but never thought anything of them, turning a blind eye to their existence. His ignorance is coming back to haunt him in the worst possible way, all the times he’d swept something under the rug for the sake of the Code creeping up on him; he can’t breathe.

 _“_ Anakin, come back! Anakin, where are you? Anakin? _Anakin!”_

Frantically he searches for him, lungs tight and filling with smoke; orange fire blurs his vision when he turns around, finding Anakin with his ‘saber drawn and closing in on him.

“ _That name means nothing to me anymore.”_

His voice sounds far away, otherworldly. This isn’t Anakin, it can’t be – when he attacks, teeth bared and ferocious, Obi-Wan reacts instinctively.

Anakin stumbles, Anakin falls; the flames envelope him, lick at his flesh, swallow him whole. He screams.

“No, no, come back,  _please_ , please come back,” Obi-Wan begs pathetically, falls to his knees, tears hot on his face – the fire goes out as soon as it roared to life, leaving behind nothing but scorched blackness.

He looks around himself, wipes his face with the sleeve of his dirty tunic. The river of lava keeps on coursing, burns in its path like nothing happened; smoke curls around him, seeps into his skin, keeps his broken pieces together. He dry heaves –  _what has he done_?

A man in black rises from the searing ashes of the shore, tall and robot-like, leather glove curling around a red-bladed lightsaber; he lifts his head, cocks it in that  _way_  of his – he rasps mechanically, and the voice raises goosebumps on Obi-Wan’s skin, “ _You did this to me.”_

His eyes snap open – it was only a dream.

“Was it about him?” Qui-Gon asks in the morning. “Again?”

“They’re oddly specific, don’t you think?” Obi-Wan quips and pretends his hands aren’t shaking. “These dreams – that man is always the same. Don’t you think they could… mean something?”

Qui-Gon hums thoughtfully. “I think you’re feeling guilty, my young Padawan. Dreams pass in time. You must let go.”

“I am not so young anymore, Master,” Obi-Wan replies, offhanded, and tries not to be disappointed at Qui-Gon’s lack of insight.

He can only imagine what Anakin felt like when he’d fed those same words to him back in Padme’s apartment.)

“We are lying low,” Bail says casually, hands clasped behind his back, his shoulders straight. “But everything else is in motion as planned.”

Obi-Wan gives a stiff nod – good, great; wonderful, even. “Bail…”

“Yes?”

“How is she?” his throat constricts and his mouth runs dry; he ignores his thumping heart. “The girl, Leia. How is she?”

Bail raises his chin in quiet defiance; Obi-Wan is pushing limits.

“She’s amazing,” he breathes at last, parental adoration flush on his face; Obi-Wan feels oddly wistful. “Smart, bright, headstrong, she’s… a lot like Padme.”

(Padme; Padme with big brown eyes and a caring smile, Padme with the frown and the Senator voice, Padme with a heart that belongs to Anakin, Padme with Anakin’s own bloody heart right in her dainty hand – Padme with the power to stop the galaxy from collapsing.

Padme with no will to live. Padme with her hands clasped over her belly in her casket, Padme with a japor snippet between her pale fingers.

Sometimes he hates her – no, of course he doesn’t hate her. Sometimes he _blames_  her.

It’s a nasty thought, niggling at the back of his mind; it taints his memory of her, leaves a bad taste in his mouth.

He remembers her as strong, someone who fought with everything they had to achieve justice.

He remembers her giggling over blossom wine, not dying in a sterile white room, bones of her neck broken – he could’ve, no,  _should’ve_  stopped him. If anything, it’s his fault.

Stupid,  _stupid_ , incompetent Obi-Wan.)

“Good,” he can’t help the smile and Bail’s lip curls as well. “Very good. May the Force be with you, old friend.”

“May the Force be with you,” Bail says in return, giving a slight bow. “Oh, and before I forget – happy Empire day, citizen.”

They share a wry grin; Bail clicks off.

It is Empire day, ten years since Mustafar, ten years since the twins’ birth; it’s their birthday today, Obi-Wan realizes belatedly and he feels every single one of those years deep in his bones.

At least Leia is well off, he thinks and buries the guilt of stranding Luke on this planet deep down.

At least he hasn’t failed one person.

(“What is this place anyway?” Anakin asks, golden sunlight seeping into his hair.

“Netherworlds of the Force,” Obi-Wan shrugs, smile setting on his face. “How nice of you to finally join us, old friend.”

“I forgot you Jedi forgive as easily as you betray.”

Obi-Wan’s face falls; he had expected this. “You being here is the will of the Force. There must be something redeemable about you.”

Anakin’s laugh is harsh. He says, “Death does not make one perfect, old man. Do not get your hopes up.”

“Walk with me,” Obi-Wan shakes his head. “There is much I have to tell you.”

“I’m  _not_  your apprentice anymore,” Anakin spits, a stark contrast to his surroundings. “I don’t have to listen to you.”

“Yes,” Obi-Wan agrees lightly. “You are very much an adult, Anakin. You don’t have to listen to me. You don’t have to do anything I tell you to. In fact, you are free to go wherever you like.”

There is an unsure silence; next, “You abandoned me.”

Obi-Wan can’t argue.

“You  _betrayed_  me.”

“I’m sorry that you think the Jedi betrayed you, Anakin,” he says gently. “There were many times when we did you wrong.”

Anakin’s shoulders soften. He catches himself just in time. He inspects Obi-Wan closely, waits for him to draw back - not anymore. 

“I’m sorry you think that…  _I_  betrayed you,” Obi-Wan continues. “What happened could’ve gone very differently. I’m just glad you’re back with us.”

“I didn’t do it for you,” Anakin informs cruelly, if not unnecessarily. “I did it for her and for them but, but –  _not_  for you.”

“I know,” Obi-Wan replies, perfectly aware. ”I understand.”

“Y-You  _understand_?” Anakin splutters. “After everything –  _everything_  that’s happened– twenty years– I ruined your life and you  _understand_  –“

“Anakin,” Obi-Wan interjects calmly. “I forgive you.”

Anakin’s freezes, closes his mouth. “You…forgive me?”

Obi-Wan gives a nod. “I refuse to live out the rest of eternity holding a grudge against someone I once called brother.”

“You don’t hate me?” Anakin’s voice breaks. He looks away.

“Of course not,” Obi-Wan’s eyes soften; he takes Anakin’s shoulders in his hands.

“I loved you like a child and a brother,” he says honestly, perhaps twenty years too late. “I could  _never_  hate you.”

Anakin’s lower lip quivers; he swallows thickly. “I don’t think I could ever hate you either.”

Obi-Wan quirks an eyebrow. “No?”

“No, Master,” Anakin admits and there is a hint of that little smile Obi-Wan missed so much on his face. His posture is relaxed, both his hands flesh. He is as whole as he has ever been. “I hated myself for not hating you. I hated myself for missing you. And I hated myself for sometimes wondering if you were right.”

Obi-Wan grins, widely, unrestrictedly, for the first time in years – “Don’t call me master, Anakin. There’s no need for such silly formalities.”

“Forgive me, Obi-Wan,” he says teasingly, own grin breaking though. “I thought you were supposed to pay respect to your elders.”

“Walk with me,” he repeats, failing to keep the laughter out of his voice. “There is much I have to tell you.”

This time Anakin follows.)


End file.
